Golden keys and silver roses
by Never the End127
Summary: Mathew and Mary attempt conversation and discuss tea. Set during season 1.


**Wrote this as a giftfic for a friend. She thought I should post it. Enjoy. (:**

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"I don't suppose they drink tea where _you _come from." Mary says primly over the edge of her gold-rimmed cup. They're Mama's best—the china blue ones from Italy, the ones that Mary can' t believe are being wasted on this insufferable, distant cousin for whom she bears no fondness, nor empathy, nor even the slightest bit of interest.

Mathew arched a golden eyebrow, a smile twisting at the corners of his lips.

They were outside on the porch, drinking tea and staring out at the sweeping acres of glossy green fields and brackish woods that would someday belong to Mathew. All of the land that Mary had lived and loved upon, a childhood playground for herself and her sisters—to be owned by this mysterious stranger with the vaguely charming smile and aggravatingly handsome stature.

"Not really, no." Mathew answers, and she knows he's humoring her.

The air is a little too crisp with early spring and dampness, and Mary tugs her Edith's borrowed shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.

"As a matter of fact, we drink whiskey throughout the day and hop about in ripped up britches in the evening, dancing round a bonfire and singing Irish folk songs 'til one in the morning."

"You're mocking me." Mary accused coldly.

Mathew glanced up, inherently surprised, and not for the first time Mary was regretting having accepted his invitation to join him for tea.

"Not at all, my dear Lady Mary." He answered. "I was merely making a joke. We happen to love tea in the countryside as it is—my particular favorite is jasmine." He hesitated, then added, "And to be honest, I'm not really one for whiskey myself. I'm not a particularly pleasant drunk."

"You're not particularly pleasant _sober_, either." Mary knew she was being rude, but the temptation to make the arrogant jab was too great.

He smiled as he bit into another tea cake, smiling slowly at the surprisingly sour note of lemon under the sugar. "You misunderstand me, my lady—I'm not at all _violent_ while intoxicated, nor am I overwhelmingly aggressive... No, I've simply been told by my friends that I'm remarkably _boring_ after I've had a few too many glasses of wine."

"Is that so?" Mary smoothed the folds of her frothy, peach colored gown and sat up a little straighter in her chair.

"Yes. Apparently I'm only good for making ill-conceived attempts at humor and spouting forth useless pieces of wisdom. It's quite underwhelming, if anything."

"Ah. So I what I can deduce from this is that you're about the same drunk as you are when you're sober?" Mary offered.

Mathew laughed, tipping back his cup and taking a long, slow sip. "You've used that joke already, love. If you intend to insult me, at least be original about it."

His words may have sounded almost angry, which would have given Mary at least some satisfaction. But his smile was as bright as the setting sun.

Mary pressed her lips together and took a sip. The tea was rich; rosy, warm and sweet—Sybil's favorite assortment that Papa had brought home from Switzerland.

"You know your father expects me to propose to you within the end of the year?" Mathew said abruptly, his gaze shifting slightly to watch a yellow butterfly fluttering over the sugar bowl.

Mary choked on air.

Honestly, on air. She shook out her napkin and covered her mouth, turning away from the table and feeling the blood rush up to her cheeks. No, she would _not_ blush in front of him.

He makes all the gentlemanly pleasantries, the 'are you alright's and the 'is there anything I can do's and the 'are you sure you're feeling well, Lady Mary's? She brushes him off, shaking her head and eventually they settle back into an uncomfortable silence.

A group of kitchen boys are out in the yard, throwing around a football. Mary really should be yelling at them to stop whooping and hollering so—but she can't find the strength to speak until Mathew pursues the topic.

"I was only mentioning it because I heard some of the servants gossiping." He explained quickly. "And… I heard Sybil and your mother's lady maid saying something about… never mind."

She's grateful to let the subject lie. She attempts to change the subject, pointing out a girl in purple near the front door who she knows is Lady Grantham's friend but pretends she doesn't.

"Golly, is that Edith? With lipstick on? Mama doesn't allow us to paint our faces, I don't know what's gotten into her head."

"Lady Mary…"

"Nevermind, it's not Edith—I swear, my eyes must be going or—"

"Mary." He says, and he's chuckling quietly. "My dear, I'm not going to ask for your hand. I daresay you would sooner bite mine _off _than accept."

Mary relaxes, but only slightly.

"I only brought it up because I assumed you'd find it funny. I heard a few servants, Thomas and Jimmy making a bet about how soon we would tie the knot. None of them seem to realize how much you detest me."

Mary looked up at him, blinking in surprise. "I don't detest you." She argued.

Mathew shook his head, his hand reaching out across the table cloth to rest gently on hers for a moment.

"I don't." Mary repeated. "I'm not overly fond of you, but you shouldn't be so outwardly offended by that." Mary was perhaps a bit more fond of Mathew than she let on, and he didn't seem at all offended, but she ignored the truth and plowed on forwards through her speech.

"It took me nearly fourteen years before I finally learned to tolerate Edith. Considering the circumstances upon which you and I met, Mathew, I have been astoundingly nice."

"Nice?" Mathew repeated.

"Yes. Nice. Congenial. Benevolent. Gracious."

Mathew raised an eyebrow.

"Well, for me, at any rate." Mary resisted the smile tugging at her lips and instead beamed out at the Abbey.

Maybe to hand this all over to Mathew wouldn't be the end of the world, after all.


End file.
